


Never Ending Game

by AspiringCatLady (orphan_account)



Category: Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/AspiringCatLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern ACD Sherlock stories. Sherlock and John Watson take on London's top crimes and, with the help of their Pokemon, solve them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Ending Game

**Author's Note:**

> This is partially a continuation of my other story called "A Doctor at War". Many people have requested this as a series, so I obliged :)

Mike Stamford led John Watson down the long hallway in St. Bart's Hospital. His Psyduck and John's Arcanine followed them. "In here," Mike told his old friend, opening a door.

"You wait out here, okay, Flash?" John asked his Pokémon. From what he remembered, the room they were about to enter was small and cluttered. Flash nodded and took a seat next to the grey door.

"Bit different than my day," John muttered, entering and looking around the room. Sophisticated tools, technology, and science beakers littered the room. Sitting behind a microscope on one side of the room was a thin man with dark curly hair. At his feet was an Absol with snow white fur.

"You've no idea," Mike answered.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone?" the man asked in a smooth voice.

"Sorry, don't have it on me," Mike shrugged.

John looked between the two men and said, "Um, here. You can borrow mine." The man looked up from the microscope for the first time. His eyes― which were a mixture of blue, green, and gold― looked John over quickly.

"Thank you," he said. His eyes returned to the microscope. He held out his hand to John, waiting for him to hand over the phone. John placed the silver mobile in his hand.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson," Mike told the man, who was now texting on John's phone.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked. John looked quizzically at Mike, wondering if he had spoken to the man before coming here. He and John had been together most of the afternoon, so he didn't know when Mike would've had the time to phone ahead.

"Excuse me?" John asked.

"I said Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry, but how did you know?" John asked. At that moment, a small woman in a lab coat walked in with two cups of what looked to be coffee.

"Thank you Molly," Sherlock said, accepting the hot cup. He and the woman, Molly, had a short conversation that John ignored. He was trying to figure out more about this strange man.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked John.

"Huh? I'm sorry, what?" John asked, his eyebrows furrowed with confusion.

"I play the violin sometimes when I'm thinking and at times don't talk for days on end. Also, Sebastian," the man gestured to the Absol, who looked up at the sound of his name, "often chews on furniture. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

"You told him about me?" he asked. This man seemed to know an awful lot about him.

"Not a word," Mike replied, shrugging.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," the dark headed man said. "Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap."

"How'd you know about Afghanistan?" John asked. This man was impossible.

"I've got my eye on a nice on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it together. It has very few restrictions on Pokémon. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to run. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary," he said, leaving the table. He and his Absol walked towards a door opposite the one John had entered.

"Is that it?" John asked incredulously.

"Is that what?" he asked.

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?" John couldn't believe this man.

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting and I don't even know your name!"

The man looked at John with a devilish glint in his eye and said, "I know you're an Army doctor and that you've been sent home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic quite correctly, I'm afraid. You have at least one fire Pokémon, who you've had since childhood, but when you first met him, he was slow to trust you. That's enough to go on, don't you think?" he walked out the door, sticking his head back in and said with a smile and a wink, "The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon, John Watson."

John watched the now closed door with confusion and surprise. He looked at a grinning Mike, who said, "Yeah, he's always like that."

…

John stood unsure outside 221B Baker Street. He had just met this man, Sherlock Holmes, one day before and now he was coming to look at a flat with him? Flash nudged at John's cane, offering assistance as he often did.

"I don't know if I should do this…" John told the Arcanine.

"Hello, glad to see you made it," Sherlock Holmes said as he got out of a black cab. He held the door open and his Absol jumped out easily.

"Mr. Holmes," John nodded a greeting.

"Sherlock, please," he corrected. He looked at Flash with a smile. He went up to the large Pokémon and lifted his muzzle, revealing sharp and shiny teeth. "Fascinating," he said, observing Flash's gums.

"Uh, what are you doing?" John asked nervously. Flash was confused as to whether he should bite this strange man or let him carry on. "Please don't do that."

"Arcanines are very rare in London," Sherlock said, releasing Flash's muzzle. "I've always wanted to observe and experiment on one."

"You are not experimenting on Flash," John said firmly with a hint of anger. He limped forward to his Pokémon's side.

"Okay, fine," Sherlock said, sounding either bored or annoyed. John couldn't tell which.

"This is a really nice location," John noted. "It must be expensive."

"No, I know the landlady, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, walking up to the door. "She owes me a favor. I helped her out when her husband was on death row."

"Wait a minute, you stopped his execution?" John asked.

"Oh, no, I ensured it."

John was still looking at him, baffled, when the door opened. "Oh, Sherlock, hello! Come in," a woman greeted. She moved out of the doorway so Sherlock and John could enter. Flash and Sebastian followed their masters into the building.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock nodded to her.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, is it?" John said.

…

"This could be very nice," John said, walking around the flat. He looked over all the clutter in the room, "It's nice and roomy."

"Yes, yes, that's what I thought as well," Sherlock said. "So I went straight ahead and moved in."

John looked up from the clutter at his new flatmate. "This is all yours?" he asked, gesturing to the mess.

"Well, obviously it can be cleaned up a bit," Sherlock muttered. He sat down in an arm chair and Sebastian lounged out on the sofa. John noticed teeth marks on one of the couch's legs.

John nodded. He looked at Flash, who was awkwardly moving around the cluttered room. The apartment was a good size, but with all Sherlock's belongings and furniture, it made it difficult for the large Pokémon to move around.

"That's a skull…" John said when he noticed a skull, a real skull, sitting on the room's mantle.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded. "A friend of mine. Well, when I say friend," he smiled.

John nodded cautiously. "So," Mrs. Hudson said, "Dr. Watson, what do you think? There's another room upstairs, if you'll be needing it."

"Of course I'll need it," John replied quickly. Mrs. Hudson nodded and straightened out a mess of papers on the kitchen table.

John sat down heavily in an armchair near Sherlock's. Flash managed to walk to the chair and sit down next to it. "So, Sherlock. I looked you up on the internet last night."

"Anything interesting?"

"I found your website on deduction," John said.

"What'd you think?" Sherlock asked.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie, and what type of Pokémon a person has by his arms?"

"Yes, and I can identify your military status by your face and your Pokémon by your fingertips," Sherlock said carelessly. "As well as your brother's drinking habits by your phone."

"How?" John asked unbelieving.

"Have you heard of the suicides, then, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asked. She had picked up a newspaper from the kitchen counter. "Seems like it'd be just your type of case. Three suicides, all the same."

"Four," Sherlock corrected. John frowned and cocked his head in confusion. He noticed police lights and sirens out the window. "There's been a fourth, but this one's different somehow."

"How do you know that?" John asked, just as the door to 221B opened. A tall man with greying hair stood in the doorway.

"Where?" Sherlock asked.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens," the man said. "Will you come?"

"What's new about this one? There must be something different, or you wouldn't have come to me," Sherlock said.

"You know how they never leave notes?" Sherlock nodded in response. "Well this one did.

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock grunted with frustration. "Anderson won't work with me," he said. The man at the door sighed. John watched them, unsure of what was happening.

"It's not like he'll be your assistant," the man replied.

"I need an assistant."

"Will you come?" he repeated.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind you," Sherlock nodded. The man at the door nodded and left the building. Sebastian hopped to his feet with excitement.

"Brilliant!" Sherlock grinned. Sebastian gave a yap of joy. "It's Christmas, Mrs. Hudson! Four serial suicides and a note," Sherlock laughed. "I'll be home late; might need some food, too." He went to the door and tied a scarf around his neck.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded.

"Wait, what?" John asked, trying to understand what was happening.

"I'm helping the yard solve these murders," Sherlock said simply.

"Murders?" John questioned. "I thought they were suicides?"

"Serial Suicides? Don't be daft, John. Have a cup of tea and make yourself at home," he said before leaving the flat with Sebastian.

John sighed. He felt like he should follow him, but knew he could never keep up with this damn leg. He looked at Flash sadly.

"You were an army doctor," Sherlock said. John looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway again, pulling black gloves on his hands.

"Yes," John nodded.

"Were you any good?"

"I was very good," he replied, almost defensively.

"You've seen war and bloodshed and death," Sherlock stated.

"I've seen more than enough death for a lifetime."

"Do you want to see some more?" Sherlock asked with a glint in his eye and a suggestive smile.

"Oh god yes," John rushed to his feet as fast as his bum leg would allow him. Flash stood as well. "Can I bring Flash?"

"If you'd like," Sherlock nodded. He disappeared from the flat again, followed by John and Flash.

…

Sherlock and John hailed a cab, a special one made for large Pokémon, and squeezed inside with Flash and Sebastian. The two men sat in the back of the cab with Sebastian in between them. Flash sat in the front.

"I assume you have questions?" Sherlock asked a few minutes into the drive.

John nodded. "Yes. Where exactly are we going?"

"Crime scene. At Lauriston Gardens," Sherlock answered, sounding bored. "Next?"

"What do you do?" John questioned.

"What do you think I do?"

"I'd say Private Detective," John said. Sherlock nodded.

"But?" he asked when John trailed off.

"But the police don't come to private detectives for help."

"You're correct. I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock said. John looked at him with confusion. He had never heard of that profession before. "The only one in the world. I invented the job."

"I don't… What does that mean?" John asked. This man was deeply difficult to understand.

"It means," Sherlock sighed. "When the police are out of their depths, which is always, they call on me. They consult me and I help them solve the case."

John nodded again, tapping his cane on the cab floor. "How'd you know about me? The war and what type of Pokémon I have and that stuff?"

"I didn't know. I saw. I observed."

"Fine. How did you observe those things?"

"When you entered the lab, you said 'bit different than my day.' That means you trained at Bart's years ago. Also, the way you hold yourself strongly suggests military, so obviously you were an Army doctor. Your face and hands are tan, but not above the wrists. This suggests you've been abroad―you can't get that type of tan in London this time of year―but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair, as if you had forgotten about it. Meaning, the limp is at least partly psychosomatic. This suggests the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in war," Sherlock said lengthily, "Wounded in action, suntan, the military haircut― Afghanistan or Iraq."

"And Flash?" John asked, gesturing to his large Pokémon in the front of the cab.

"You have burn wounds on your fingertips. Their old, many years old. The way they are shaped suggests you were still growing when you received them, leading me to adolescence. You also have similarly old bite wounds on your arms, but they also shrivel slightly around the edges. Fire Pokémon generally have this effect when biting things."

"Alright," John accepted, looking out the window. Flats and houses passed by in blurs. "And the therapist?"

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you have a therapist," Sherlock answered. John chuckled softly and shook his head. "And then there is your brother."

"Let me hear it," John said, ready for the observations Sherlock had made.

"Your phone. It's high-tech. It has mp3, e-mail, and all the 'top notch apps' that comes with a nice phone, yet you came to the lab looking for someone to share a flat with. You wouldn't waste money on something like this, so it must be a gift," Sherlock held out his hand, silently requesting to see John's phone. John pressed the phone into his flatmate's palm.

Sherlock turned it over as he talked. "There are scratches on the phone. There isn't just one, there are many over the course of a long time. Probably kept in the same pocket as coins or keys. You would never treat a 'luxury' item like this with such carelessness. Implicating a previous owner. I know you know this next part," Sherlock said, running his thumb over the phone's silver surface.

"Engraving?" John asked.

"Yes. Harry Watson. Further deduction leads me to Harry being a family member, most likely it's a sibling," Sherlock explained. He shared his observations further, about Harry leaving his wife, and his drinking problems.

"That… that was amazing," John said with admiration. Sherlock and Sebastian looked up at him with surprise.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked with a smile creeping up on his lips.

"Yes, of course," John nodded. "It was quite extraordinary. Astonishing."

"Hm. That's not what people normally say…" the consulting detective muttered, looking out his window again.

"What do people normally say?" John asked. He cocked his head to the side curiously.

Sherlock gave a short laugh and answered, "'Piss off'."

…

John, Sherlock, Flash, and Sebastian approached the yellow crime tape at Lauriston Gardens, lifting it up and crossing under. "Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked as they walked.

"I was an Army Doctor," John nodded. "Flash is obviously a fire Pokémon, and when I first met him―when I was six years of age―he didn't trust me very much. Harry and Clara, the wife, split up about three months ago. Harry is a drinker."

"So I was right about everything?" Sherlock looked at the former Army doctor with raised eyebrows.

"Harry…" John said. He limped as fast as he could to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace. "Is short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped walking immediately. He gritted his teeth and hit at the air, upset, and said with a frustrated grunt, "Harry's your sister."

"Yes, now what am I doing here?" John asked, looking around the crime scene at the police officers and flashing red and blue lights. A woman with curly brown hair approached them with a look of distaste.

"What are you doing here, freak?" she asked. John looked at Sherlock with a surprise.

"I'm here to see Lestrade," Sherlock told her emotionless.

"Why?" the woman asked with her nose turned up.

"I was invited," he sneered. John ignored the rest of the conversation, watching police walk in and out of an apartment complex.

"Who's this?" Donovan asked, gesturing to John. He was pulled back into their conversation.

"Dr. John Watson, colleague of mine," Sherlock said, "Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old friend," he said, practically spitting the sarcasm.

Sherlock ignored Donovan's confused questions about John being a colleague, and pushed past her. He led John and the two Pokémon up to the center of the crime scene, an entrance to a flat, when they were stopped again by a man in a sickly blue coverall.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock said. The man watched Sherlock with aversion.

"This is a crime scene," Anderson growled. "I don't want it contaminated."

"Then you best leave the work to another person, huh?" Sherlock teased. Anderson looked at the Arcanine and Absol behind him and John.

"You cannot bring Pokémon into a crime scene!"

"Oh, please!" Sherlock scoffed. "You'd bring yours, too, but if I remember correctly, Magikarps don't travel well."

John stifled a snigger, disguising it as a cough. Sherlock smiled and entered the building. John, Flash and Sebastian followed closely behind.

…

"Five minutes!" Detective Lestrade called after Sherlock and John, now in his own coverall, as they entered the room with the dead body.

John limped into the room and took a deep breath when he saw the woman lying face-down on the floor, her pink coat falling loosely around her. Sherlock crouched next the body and looked closely at her hands and finger tips. His eyes went over every bit of her clothing, stopping momentarily at the bottom of her stockings, and then observing each piece of jewelry she wore. He stood up and brushed nonexistent dust off his knees.

"Absol!" Sebastian barked, looking up at his master from near the victim's legs. Sherlock rushed to his side and picked up what looked to be a sliver of hair and grinned widely.

"Great job," Sherlock praised the Pokémon.

"You said something was different about this one?" John asked Sherlock, remembering his words from earlier.

"Yes, have you not noticed?" Sherlock asked. He looked down at the floor and John followed his gaze.

"Oh," John said as his eyes noticed the 'Rache' scratched into the wooden floor. Sherlock nodded.

Lestrade, who was standing in the doorway said, "Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. She hasn't been here very long. Did you find anything?"

"Not too much," Sherlock replied. John assumed by the consulting detective's expression that he was holding something back. He removed his black gloves from his hands and began to type on his phone.

"She's German," Anderson's annoying voice filled the room. Sherlock looked at him with anger and disgust, increasing the man's smug look immensely. "Rache. It's German for 'revenge.'"

Sherlock walked quickly to the door and slammed it on the man's face. John couldn't help but smile, but it disappeared quickly at Lestrade's disapproving stare. "Who are you again?" Lestrade asked the former doctor. They had gone through this before coming up to the room, but he didn't seem to had paid to much attention before.

"He's with me," Sherlock said for the third time that day. "Now…" he trailed off, looking at his phone again.

"So she's German?" the Detective Inspector asked.

"Of course not, don't be an idiot," Sherlock snapped. "She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay here in London for one night, most likely. Before she returned home to Cardiff, obviously."

"Obvious?" John questioned.

"What 'bout the writing, though?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him and turned to John, "What do you think, Dr. Watson?"

"Uh, the message―" John began.

"Not the message, the body. You're a medical doctor, examine it and tell me. What do you think?" Sherlock interrupted.

"No, we've got an entire medical team right outside," Lestrade said with exasperation.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm already breaking every rule just to let you―and your bloody Pokémon―in here."

Sherlock smirked and said challengingly, "Because you need me. Good luck solving this case on your own, Detective Inspector.

"Yes. Do as he says, Dr. Watson," Lestrade muttered sourly. He left the room with hunched shoulders. John gave him a hesitant glance before lowering himself next to the motionless body.

"What do you think?" Sherlock repeated.

John muttered to himself, "I'm supposed to help with the bloody rent, not at crime scenes." He then added louder with a sigh, "Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out and choked on her own vomit. No smell of alcohol, so it was most likely drugs or a seizure. I'd guess in favor of the drugs."

"Think about what you've read in the papers," Sherlock hinted.

"Serial― wait, you mean she's part of the serial suicides?" he asked.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said as he entered the room again. "Time's up. I need anything you've got." John struggled to his feet, his bum leg making it difficult. Flash offered his solid frame as help.

"Victim's in her thirties, late thirties at that. She's from Cardiff and is a professional, I'd guess in the media by the obnoxious color of her coat. She has a Skitty; the Pokémon is highly treasured to her. I assume that she kept her in a rolling cage, one for 'luxury pets.' This woman wouldn't have kept her favorite Pokémon trapped away in a pokéball, no she would have to be aware of its location at all times. She was in town for a Pokémon competition. Basically a beauty pageant for Pokémon."

"Sherlock, I swear if you're making this up," Lestrade growled through clenched teeth.

"It's all in the evidence, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said. He crouched next to the body again, pointing out certain areas as he talked. "Look at the bite marks on her hands. They're from a relatively small Pokémon, and one with dull teeth. Pokémon who are shown in beauty competitions often get their teeth filed down to look 'pretty,'" he said with sarcasm. John shook his head in disgust. How could anyone do that to a Pokémon? "There are small hairs all over her. Pink, crème, and purple colored hairs to be exact. Considering what Pokémon have that mix of colors, and then there's the size of her roller bag, chances are it's a Skitty."

"How do you know she's from Cardiff?" Lestrade leaned heavily against the wall.

"There are water marks from where her roller bag― I assume the one that held the Pokémon― splashed water up from the ground. Her coat collar has been turned up against wind. She had an umbrella," Sherlock motioned to the small pink umbrella attached to the woman's coat, "but the wind was too strong to use it. Her hair is greatly wind-battered, and parts of it around her neck are damp. Where has there been strong winds and rain today? Cardiff."

"Brilliant," John breathed with a grin. He shook his head with disbelief.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked. He had to be honest; he did enjoy John's admiration.

"Oh, uh, sorry. I'll stop," John mumbled with embarrassment.

"No," Sherlock said, hiding a smile. "Nah, it's… uh, it's alright."

"You keep saying she brought her Skitty," Lestrade spoke up.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Where is she?"

"There weren't any Pokémon at the scene," the DI shrugged. "And why do you say 'she'? Up until now the Skitty was an 'it.'"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asked. Lestrade and John looked at him with no agreement. Sebastian gave a huff of impatience. He and Sherlock were already on the same page. "Urgh! You have such dull minds!"

"Hey!" Lestrade said defensively.

"Rache," Sherlock said with exasperation. "The Skitty's name was Rachel."

"So she thought about her Pokémon before dying…?" the DI struggled to get to Sherlock's train of thought.

"No," Sherlock sighed. The way he spoke was similar to a frustrated adult talking to a toddler. "The woman scratched her Pokémon's name in the wood flooring. That means pain. A whole lot of pain! It's a clue. It's a hint to lead us to the bloody killer."

"How? We don't have the Skitty."

"Oh, don't you realize how fantastic this is?" Sherlock asked with excitement.

"Sorry, but I don't know," John said. He and Lestrade both felt similar irritation, but John also was very fond of Sherlock's deduction skills.

"She left the Pokémon with her killer. Now why do you think she would do that?" he inquired with a mocking tone. "Because she knew she was coming to her death! Rachel is the key!"

"How?" Lestrade frowned.

"The Skitty was prized and used in beauty competitions. The victim's Pokémon would have had a tracking device. Most show Pokémon do," Sherlock grunted. He was restless. "If your Pokémon is lost, you can track them, but you have to have information to access it. You have to have the Pokémon's name and various info about the owner."

"So… We can track the killer by locating the Skitty?" John half asked, half suggested. Sherlock gestured to him with a 'he understands' meaning.

"Alright, but how do we know that the murderer still even has the Skitty?" Greg questioned.

Sherlock and Sebastian both sent annoyed glances to the detective. "I highly doubt he will, but he had to leave the Pokémon somewhere. We can find it and use it to solve the case," he said as if it was as obvious as what color shirt he was wearing. "Come along, Watson," he beckoned. He and Sebastian left the room quickly, and John followed as fast as he could with Flash close behind.

…

John limped along on the sidewalk. Yesterday he had gone to that crime scene with Sherlock, and he still felt exhausted. He had to walk nearly four blocks to catch a cab after Sherlock had left him alone at the scene. He hobbled past a telephone booth next to a set of shops, but paused. He turned back to the–ringing?–phone and looked around. Everyone else passed by the phone without a second glance.

John approached the phone booth and opened the glass door just as the ringing stopped. He was about to close the door, but the chiming started up again. The doctor climbed into the box with his cane and picked up the receiver. "…Hello?" he asked.

"There is a surveillance camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?" a smooth voice asked.

"Who is this?" John's eyebrows knitted together with confusion.

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" the voice repeated. John looked up through the phone booth's window. Sure enough, there was a black camera there, and… it turned to face John.

"Yeah, why–"

"There is another camera on the building opposite," the voice interrupted. "Do you see it?" John hummed a 'yes' reply, watching a white camera across the street. It was pointed at the phone box, but swiveled away to the side.

"Wha–"

"And now on the building to your right. On the roof," the man said. The camera, just like the other two, switched directions.

"How are you doing this?" John asked before he could be interrupted again.

"Get in the car, Doctor Watson," said the man, avoiding John's question.

"What car?" John looked out the phone booth to see a black car sitting outside on the street. "Oh."

"I'd make some sort of threat–that is how people tend to do this sort of thing–but I'm sure you understand your position quite clearly." The phone went dead.

"Bloody hell…" John said quietly, sitting the phone down in its rightful place. He limped out of the phone box and stared at the black car worriedly. He really wished that Flash hadn't stayed home right now. He approached the car and a back door was opened. Regretfully, he climbed in and closed the door. The car started to drive quickly away. A young woman sat next to him, her eyes glued on her phone. "Ah, hello then," he said to her. She was quite attractive.

"Hi," she said with a bright smile and a small glance to him. She laughed at something on the small screen before her.

"And you are?" he asked. She didn't spare a look at him this time.

"Er… Anthea."

"That your real name?" John said with irritation.

"No," she replied with another dazzling grin.

"I'm John," he told her grumpily.

"I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John inquired.

"Nope," she answered. John nodded. He hadn't expected so.

…

The next thing John knew, he was trudging around by an old factory of some sort. He had just left the car and found a tall man, wearing a suit, standing before him. The area was empty other than one green chair facing the man. He was leaning nonchalantly on a black umbrella in a similar fashion as John leaned on his cane. Sitting at his feet was a well taken care of (aka chubby) Persian.

"Have a seat, John," the man said with a sickly smile that was nowhere near genuine.

"I've got a phone, ya' know," John said impatiently, not moving towards the seat. "This is all clever and all, but you could've just phoned me. On my phone."

"When one is trying to avoid Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet," the man said, gesturing around them. His Persian was grooming his paws. "You don't seem to be afraid."

"You don't seem to be very frightening," John retorted with annoyance.

"Ah, of course. The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, don't you agree Doctor Watson?" his formerly too kind voice was now as stern as his expression. John stayed quiet. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked with his nose upturned.

"What? There isn't one. I barely just met him. I met him…" John paused in thought, realizing it had only been a day since he met Sherlock. It felt much longer than that. "Yesterday…"

"And since yesterday, you have moved in and solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week? The man sneered. John glared at him.

"Who are you?" he asked the suited man.

"Let's just say… an interested party."

"Interested party? You mean friend?

The man scoffed a laugh. "Tell me, Mr. Watson, from what you know of Sherlock, do you think he has many friends? I am as close to a friend as he is capable of having."

"And what is that exactly?" John asked pointedly. This man was getting on his nerves. John's phone buzzed once, and then twice. He removed it from his pocket to see a text message from an unrecognized phone number.

Baker Street

Come at once

If convenient

-SH

John sighed and shoved the phone back into his jeans. "Am I distracting you?" the man asked with distaste. "As you asked, you could say I am an enemy of Sherlock Holmes."

"Ha, an enemy?" John asked sarcastically. He smiled and shook his head.

"If you were to ask him, he would probably say arch-enemy. He does so love to be dramatic," the tidy man said, tapping his umbrella on the ground twice. "Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

"I believe that that is none of your business."

"It could be," the man said ominously. Under John's annoyance, he felt a small bubble of fear.

"It really couldn't," John told him.

"If you do move into," he pulled a small notebook out of his pinstriped coat, "two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to provide you with a nice sum of money to ease your way."

"Why?" John asked as the man put away the small black book.

"Because you are not a wealthy man, John," he said with a shrug.

"What do you want in exchange?"

"Information. Nothing you would be uncomfortable with, just what Sherlock is getting up to," the man said. His Persian sat up from his lying position and stared at John lazily.

"And why do you want that?"

"I worry about him. Constantly," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"How sweet," John replied insincerely.

"I would prefer you did not mention this meeting to Sherlock. I would like for my concerns to go unmentioned. We have what you might call… a difficult relationship."

John pulled his phone out of his pocket again at a new message reading:

If inconvenient,

Come anyway.

-SH

"No," John said, putting the phone away.

"But I haven't even mentioned a figure," the man replied.

"Don't bother," John started to turn away.

"You are very loyal, Doctor Watson. Very loyal, very quickly," the man stopped him.

"No, I'm just not interested."

The man held his black book in his hand again. Reading off it he said, "Says here you have 'trust issues.' Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who said I trust him? What's that?" John looked at the book with clenched teeth.

John turned and started to walk away again. "I imagine people have warned you to stay away already," the man called after him. "But I can see from your left hand that that won't be happening." The former Army doctor stopped and turned around tensely.

"My what?" he growled.

"Show me," the man nodded to John's hand. John's frown deepened and he didn't move any closer. The man walked towards him, leaving his umbrella standing up next to his Pokémon, and reached out for the hand. John jerked it back. "Did I say trust issues?" John allowed him to pick up his left hand in his own two pale hands. "Remarkable."

John snatched his hand away from the man's grasp and barked, "What's wrong with my hand?"

"You've got an intermittent tremor in your hand. Your therapist says it's PTS disorder. Says you are haunted by memories of war."

John watched the man with fear and anger. "How did you know that? Just who the hell are you?" he asked fiercely. The man was dead on.

"She's wrong. You're under a great deal of stress right now, yet your hand is perfectly steady. You are not haunted by war, Doctor Watson. You miss it."

The man walked back to his umbrella, looking pleased. "It's time to choose your side, Doctor Watson," he said as John limped away quickly.

…

"What do you need?" John asked as he entered 221B. Sherlock looked up from where he was lying on the couch with his hands tented under his chin.

"Hmm?"

"You texted me. Told me to come here," John said with annoyance. He glanced over the room, but turned his eyes quickly to the corner of the room. There was a small scared-looking Skitty sitting against the wall.

"Ah, yes, can I borrow your phone?" the detective asked, extending his palm to John, much like when they first met.

"What?" John's eyebrows knitted together."Hold on, is that that dead woman's Skitty?"

"Yes, can I borrow your phone?"

"But how do you–"

"Can I use your phone?"

"Why can't you use yours?" John sighed, throwing his arms up. He didn't think he would be getting an answer about the Skitty.

"It's across the room."

"But then how'd you text me?"

"Not important. Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows.

"I was on the other bloody side of London," John barked as he set the phone in his flatmate's hand. He sank into the green armchair that he was beginning to like and let out a relieved sigh. It felt nice to rest his leg. Sherlock didn't speak as he used John's phone, so the former Army doctor broke the silence, "I met a friend of yours."

"Friend?" Sherlock looked up in alarm and shock.

"Well, I guess an enemy," John sighed.

"Ah," the detective nodded. "Which one?"

"He said your 'arch-enemy'?"

"He offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes," John nodded. He glanced over to see Flash enter the room. "I didn't take it."

"That could've helped with the rent. We could've split the profits, think it through next time," Sherlock said.

"What are you–"

"Ah ha," Sherlock grinned, sitting up. He tossed John's phone to him.

"Will you answer my question now?" the doctor asked with irritation. He looked again at the cowering pink Pokémon.

"Huh? Oh, yes. It's the latest victim's Skitty. Found her in an alley. I guess it took a while for the murderer to realize she was still in the cab," he shrugged.

"But–"

"Come on, John," Sherlock said, pulling his navy scarf around his pale neck. "Aren't you coming?"

"Coming where?" John asked, frustrated. He slowly got to his feet and limped over to the detective.

"To find the killer, of course," Sherlock grinned. He gave out a low whistle, and a moment later Sebastian came running to the room, looking excited. The Pokémon barked impatiently at the door, ready to leave.

"How?" John questioned, but the consulting detective had already disappeared with his anxious Absol.

"Arcan?" Flash cocked his head and John watched the door with uncertainty.

"Urgh, I guess we're going out," John muttered. Flash hurried to his master's side and the two left flat 221B Baker Street

…

"So what are we doing here?" John asked. Sherlock had brought him to a restaurant. The doctor was unsure of how this helped the case.

"According to the location records, the killer circled back to Lauriston Gardens twice before abandoning the Skitty."

"Wait, what records?"

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. When he released the soft skin, the detective went back to looking out the nearby window. "Like I said before, the Skitty had a tracking device. There are different types of tracking chips, but luckily for us, the victim's Pokémon has one which takes down its location every half hour. The woman was paranoid about losing the thing," he said boredly. John was surprised by how easily Sherlock changed from calling the Pokémon 'she' and then 'it'.

"Hmm," Sherlock sat up in his seat, leaning forward. He watched over John's shoulder at something outside.

"What is it?" John questioned, shoving ravioli into his mouth. He then took a forkful of pasta and dropped it onto Flash's plate. Sherlock and Sebastian weren't eating.

"A cab," Sherlock said with interest. Sebastian growled with a smile. "Its light is off, but it's parked right in front of Lauriston Gardens. I'd guess killer guilt, hm?" he looked at his Pokémon with a glint in his eyes.

"So what now?" John felt anxiety rise in his stomach. They were getting ready to confront a murderer, after all.

"You wait here," Sherlock said. Sebastian gave out something that sounded like a laugh that was cut shork when Sherlock interrupted, "You, too. Sorry, but this is a one man job." Sebastian whined complaints, but the curly haired man didn't change his mind. He left the table and talked to the owner of the restaurant, who laughed and nodded his head at whatever the detective said. Next thing John knew, the brilliant man had tossed– wine?–into his face.

"And stay out!" the restaurant owner yelled, shoving Sherlock out the door. John rose to his feet, but Sebastian grumbled a reassurance. Maybe it was all part of the plan?

John turned his chair and watched out the window. Sherlock stumbled up to the cab, looking utterly drunk, and talked across the passenger seat. He talked for more than a minute until… his arms started to grip at the side of the cab as he fell to the ground. The cab driver got out and heaved Sherlock into the back seat.

"I don't think this is part of the plan," John worried.

"Absol," Sebastian shook his head and paced forward nervously.

"Come on!" John yelled, running out the door. He ran as fast as he could, Sebastian and Flash at his sides, to the cab. The black car, however, was too fast. It was gone, and now it was up to John to figure out where it was.

…

Sherlock's eyes opened heavily. His vision was blurry, but he could see the form of a man in front of him. When the consulting detective's vision began to clear, he could see an Ekans wrapped around the man's shoulders. The same Ekans that had poisoned or stunned Sherlock earlier.

"Bout time you should wake up," the man said. He looked older, but not quite elderly. His eyes were set deep in his face and were framed by dark circles. This and his paleness, led Sherlock to believe that the man was sick.

"What are… Where are we?" Sherlock slurred. Whatever that Ekans had done to him wasn't quite out of his system.

"You don't recognize it?" the man said with a gross smile. He sat across from the detective and Sherlock adjusted in his seat. He looked down, surprised. He wasn't bound to the chair. Sherlock looked around, blinking his blurry eyes. Around him was his familiar flat.

"The flat?" he asked groggily.

"Of course. Found you keys in your pocket, I did. I thought 'Why not.' People like to die at home," he replied. The man's Ekans slithered off of his shoulder and inspected Sherlock closer. The detective pulled away, his mind becoming less foggy.

"I'm not going to die," Sherlock spat. He looked around the flat, eyeing the door.

"Don't think about raising your voice. Your landlady's gone out. We're all alone, locked up snug and tight," he teased. Sherlock found his vocabulary choice to be a bit odd.

"Bit of a risk, don't you think? Bringing me here?" Sherlock asked. He tried to sit forward, but his body felt weighed down.

"That's not a risk," the man grinned. He pulled two bottles out of his trouser pockets and rested them on the table. Sherlock looked at them curiously. "This is a risk.

"Earlier, in the cab, you asked how I make them take the poison, no?" he continued as he opened the bottles and removed one pill from each of them. Sherlock nodded in affirmation. "This is the fun part."

"How'd you do it?" Sherlock squinted his eyes.

"I know who you are," the man smiled. "As soon as you said your name: Sherlock Holmes. Been on your website, I have. You're brilliant, with your 'Science of Deduction' and all. A proper genius. Why can't people just think, Mr. Holmes? It's not that hard, really."

The Ekans slithered closer to Sherlock. Its warm breath and hisses surrounded the consulting detective. "Oh, so you're a 'proper genius', too, eh?" Sherlock grumbled.

"I am, though I don't look it, do I?" he asked with a sour expression. "Just a tiny little man who drives a cab. That's all people think of me."

Sherlock now looked at the two pills in front of him. They were practically identical. The white capsule was covered in blue, red, and yellow dots of color. "Two pills?"

"Two pills. There's a good pill, and there's a bad pill. Take the good pill: you live. Take the bad pill: you die," the man explained. "You take one, and I take the other. It's a game of chess. I know how people think, I do."

"It's not chess. It's chance," Sherlock said, eyeing the pills closely.

"No, you are wrong, Mr. Holmes. I've played five times, and I'm alive. Because I know how people think." The man pushed a pill closer to the consulting detective. "Now, did I give you the good pill, or the bad pill? You can choose either one."

"You know which is which, and I don't?"

"Course I know," he scoffed. "It wouldn't be a game if you knew."

"This is what you did?" Sherlock asked.

"I gave them a chance. They lost the game. Now it's time to choose."

"It's chance."

"It's chess."

"It's luck," Sherlock growled.

"Time to choose, Mr. Holmes," the man smirked.

"You put your life on the line, five times, just to kill people you didn't know?" Sherlock delayed.

"You caught that, hmm, Mr. Holmes?" he smiled. "I'm dying. Aneurism in my head. I could drop dead any minute," he shook his head. His Ekans grumbled sadly.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, which pill do you choose?" Sherlock looked at the man hesitantly. After a moment of deep concentration, he reached out his heavy arm and picked the pill farthest away from him. The dying cabbie picked up the opposite pill, holding it inches from his mouth. "Shall we?

"You get bored, don'cha, Mr. Holmes?" he said with an edge to his voice. Sherlock held up his pill and let the light shine on it. "This is what you live for. The adrenaline. The rush."

Sherlock, with a shaky hand, lifted the pill, bringing it closer and closer to his mouth. Its capsule felt cool on his lips, but before it could even touch his tongue, a shot rang out. The nearest window shattered, and a bullet rammed into the cabbie's chest. He fell backward in his chair, blood flowing from his wound.

…

John approached 221B, which was now surrounded by police cars and an ambulance. He spotted Sherlock sitting in the back of the ambulance with an orange blanket around him. Sebastian saw him and ran to his side.

"I'm alright, Sebastian," Sherlock assured the Absol. Sebastian was rubbing his head happily against his master's leg. John waited behind the police tape with Flash, watching his flatmate out of earshot. He watched as Lestrade went up to him, holding a notepad. He wrote down what Sherlock was saying, but the consulting detective's speech stopped when he spotted John in the crowd.

He shook his head and waved away in dismissal at the Detective Inspector and traveled to where John stood. "Sergeant Donovan told me what happened," John said stiffly. Flash watched him cautiously. "Two pills, huh?"

"Mhmm," Sherlock nodded, stroking Sebastian's fur. "What'd you do with the gun?"

"What?" John looked at the detective with shock. He sighed and shook his head. "Threw it in the river," he said. Flash shifted uncomfortably at John's side.

"Good. I don't think you would've served time, but it's best to avoid a trial, isn't it?" Sherlock said. "Dinner?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess," John nodded. He, Sherlock, Sebastian, and Flash marched away from the flash of police lights, on their way to a relatively decent Chinese restaurant.

"I see you don't have your cane. Told you it was psychosomatic."

"I knew it was," John replied. John was certain that from now on, his new life with Sherlock Holmes would never have a dull moment.

…

Next Chapter: The Sign of Four


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